Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Saturday, December 16, 2017

IN THY SPIRIT KEEPING POETRY SERIES FOR DECEMBER, 2017: A POETRY TRILOGY

























I.
EVERGREEN & PINE


evergreen & pine
darken the snow
lit with dusk



©2017 In Thy Spirit Keeping Poetry Trilogy: I Evergreen & Pine For The "In Thy Spirit Keeping"  A December 2017 poetry series stephanie pope mythopoetry.com
























II.
THE NORTH WIND BLEW


evergreen & pine
darkened snow
lit with dusk

an image
stuck underneath my lid right where
evergreen & pine once drew a smile of birds

there I withdrew into night antlers
and slumber and then, the North Wind
blew

and the image
in my keeping
mounted heaven



©2017 In Thy Spirit Keeping Poetry Trilogy: II. The North Wind Blew stephanie pope mythopoetry.com











III.

A REINDEER NAMED EVERGREEN



Red as a
reindeer oddly named, cold dusk
weaves throughout the ragged smile line


antlered evergreen & pine vine where birds
flew home in trust—reborn at dusk; the sun
reddens under cover of winter already
three times dark and climbs into bed.
Evergreen & pine reign here.  A



deep promise in the smile not a poet—a poem
fleshed not flesh brings another kind of reign near
an ars poetica pulls through inner night antlers
poignant pabulum rooted in old stories & ancient stars
in ghosts & Christmas presence & the soul of worn Carol
seamless seemers clinging to a Yule King’s robe


©2017 In Thy Spirit Keeping Poetry Trilogy: III. A Reindeer Named Evergreen stephanie pope mythopoetry.com
********************************
notes

1. The major mythologem inspiring the poetry trilogy, "In Thy Spirit Keeping is the image of the Spirit of Christmas Present taken from Charles Dickens, "A Christmas Carol" re-imagined in the 1999 version  and portrayed on screen by Patrick Stewart.  Christmas occurs at a time of year when the sun is imagined weakest and life is most vulnerable. Our mythic imagination narrates how the light of the world is about to embark on a solar journey into night and the underworld this twelfth month and the world lay three times darkened.  It is the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter.  It is the end of the day and moving toward night.  It is very near the end of the year.  The spirit of Christmas appears in the form of a Yule King jolly and giant and adorned in a holly wreath and green fur-trimmed robe.  He carries a cornucopia and an empty scabbard, the empty scabbard symbolizing good will and peace on earth.  In the excerpt you are about to revisit, the Yule King's dark hair is graying.  This is how one knows the presence is a reference to how things are in the soul of the man's world now and not some other year, era, or eon.  Also, when Mr Scrooge notices something hanging down by the hem of the Yule King's robe, he thinks it is something not human, as if like an animal's claw, i.e. as if bird-like and he thinks it is not part of the Yule King but that it belongs to him.  The Yule King says no.  The claw exists as a result of man's doing.  He lifts his robe to show two human-like children, ignorance, a boy and want, a girl.  And, I remember my Jung.  Psyche is at bottom nature. Thusly, the nature of my own psyche is reminded of its own return seasonally to nature's psyche for renewal forgetful of the world of men, which is culture and in this way I may tend to what pathos ails me ailing in the world of men.





2. I am reminded of the inner robe and the inner work which can be likened to an ars poetica.  Both images, that of the inwardness of presence addressing my own soul likend to that of Christmas present in the literary imagination of the tale and the treatise or literary essays by Horace on the artistic nature of poetry 18-19 BCE, turned again by Archebald Macleish somehow matter to the way these poems come to be.  I am reminded too of another way to envision "psyche is at bottom nature."  Psyche or "soul" is not in the body.  The body is in it.  So now the Yule King seems to be an embodiment of the suffering soul ailing in the man and this is why Mr Scrooge doesn't recognize his offspring when he sees them. And when he does, it seems a nightmare.

3. Two twitter poetry prompts precede working with this literary mythologem and these occur simultaneously within the days leading up to the Doug Jones/ Roy Moore vote in Alabama.   One prompt appeared as a trending twitter hashtag #OddReindeerNames.  The second prompt was #348 and included the words, before, shadowed, and filament.  One was not allowed to use the words in the actual poetry but use active imagination to see where they took one in the ars poetica.

4.  Another thought that stayed with me while I was letting the poetic experience envelope me was remembering that the Greeks believed a god visits one in dream.  This awareness was at the heart of the healing temples of Asclepius.  Jung has written that when a man's soul first appears to him in dream and active imagiantion it shows up with the divine presence.  Soul is not with man it is with god and god takes its form to speak intially to man Jung thought.  Something like this  psychological imagination is of what the scene Patrick Stewart portrays most reminds me.  Mr. Scrooge cannot run away.  The time has come for him to wrestle his soul from the Yule King so that he may carry its spirit with him throughout all his days. 
   



Sunday, November 19, 2017

TIS A SEASON FOR POETRY

WHEN WHO POETS IN THE IMAGINAL DIMENSION
LIVES ON THE SIDEWALK OF YOUR CHILDHOOD...


WHO LOVES POETRY



Do you?
Let me introduce you to the new book trailer for
my August, 2017 release of
 Monsters & Bugs.


Enjoy!


       Monsters & Bugs on Amazon


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
















Cultural mythologer, poet-essayist, stephanie
publishes Mythopoetry Scholar Ezine
at    https://www.mythopoetry.com


and Mythopoetry Blog (Mythopoetics In Culture)
at    https://mythopoetry.blogspot.com 




STEPHANIE ON TWITTER

  twitter handle:  @mythopoetry

or visit https://twitter.com/mythopoetry


WEBSITE

https://www.mythopoetry.com









Friday, August 11, 2017

STORYHOUR : A Sea Glass Serenade #Friyay #mythopoetry





















AND SO IT HAPPENED
True personality is always a vocation...vocation acts like a law of god from which there is no escape. 
-C.G. Jung

Archetypal Suffering  "The Development of Personality"
CW17, p. 175


Tear catchers popular once
among our womankind
whose men are lost in battle
during the Civil War; many
ladies of such mind
say tears of wives and daughters
are sacred much like holy
water


It makes me think of glassy sea & blues
that in their whitely singing foam
mermaids also knew
and of this ancient turning solid
suspending sadness in those tears they
drew—caring too, they might undo
the shipwrecked fates of men in lore


And, as if by some enchanted magic
pulled they underneath
the grey-green ocean
floor
swept up in varied colors thrust
such teardrops onto shore


©2017 Sea Glass Serenade stephanie pope mythopoetry.com


Monday, June 19, 2017

A REPRESENTATIONAL SELF

























A MAD DESIRE FOR A JUST WORD

Click on this image. Watch
the cat disappear— all but his smile!











Cat up a tree

gone into canopy
smiling angel
creative emotion  
insighting power
under the pen—me
ow me-oozing, smiles
throwing words into
their true order but

never trust a smiling cat[i]
grin hanging in a tree

©2017  A Mad Desire For A Just Word  In A Representational Self
stephanie pope mythopoetry.com  #GarfieldDay

___________

notes


 additional quotes:

1.  “But, I don’t want to go among mad people.” – Alice   ("Alice in Wonderland”, Lewis Carroll)

2. “Soul, aware of the dreadful nature within situation’s reason and reasoning’s intelligences, understands there is no use trying to account for the grinning existences hiding in words.”

 
 see  Be(e)Speak! The Deformational Image by Stephanie Pope







[i] Famous Garfield quote

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

GUEST POST "song of the white dove" Beth Anne Boardman #mythopoetry #author #wednesdaywisdom









song of the white dove



the white dove came again.

i love how she sits far back
in the black, tangled branches
of that wild oak tree –

she glows through the falling darkness,
a phantom of herself….

she used to frighten me,
appearing unannounced
at nightfall….

you’re not from around here, are you?
i thought at her,
that first night….

i’ve tried to make up all kinds of stories
about why she visits when she does….

a harbinger of death?
of change?

but every day changes and dies,
as do we….

her song differs from
those of the mourning doves
that have surrounded me
since birth –

(my father taught me their song)

softer than theirs,
her song floats featherlike,
unmournful….

it curls

wispy
tender
wraithlike
(holy….)

we have watched each other
for years now….

through black ash
and endless smoky grey –

we are dual-captured
by blue-white
myriad starfields --

(our secret)

and still,
her song stops me midstep
midbreath
midquestion --

like an incognito
gasp of surprise….

then i recall an elder’s words
and realize:

she sings
not as a warning of death,
but as an

encouragement
to keep dying….


©2017 song of the white dove by Beth Anne Boardman for mythopoetry.com
©2017 song of the white dove Beth Anne Boardman All Rights Retained



_____________
NOTES

The last two lines recall the wisdom of Chungliang al Huang, who appears in Finding Joe, a film by Patrick Takaya Solomon.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Beth Anne Boardman, RN, MA, PhD lives in California and New Hampshire. She travels and lectures on the Mythology of Sport; Women and Myth; and the Alchemy of Adolescence (her dissertation topic), in addition to consulting as a writer to websites.  

Recently, Beth has served on the board of the Pacifica Graduate Institute Alumni Association and as Regional Coordinator for local alumni. Her career spans work as a registered nurse, the study of world dance and music, and the profound joy of raising two children.


BLOG


For stories and essays on creative life and culture visit Dr. Beth Ann Boardman at MYTHMUSE


POETRY BLOG



POEMS FROM THE OTHERWORLD




Tuesday, May 30, 2017

GUEST POST "reconciling grey" by Beth Anne Boardman #amwriting #poetry #authorslife

























reconciling grey



sometimes the world’s beauty

seems to vanish
in one whoosh….

death bookends life,

fate turns on its dime,

and rugs shift
under our feet….

poems, words, colors, disappear
metaphor leaves….

shall we hope for no more happiness
if gifts come
on the sharp edge
of a knife?


this morning

i stood on my front steps
and this foreign wind
played in my hair,

ran all around my face
and made me dizzy

birds sang confusingly
of nests and mates
and territories….

the sun shone strangely
springlike

and i brought in the laundry….


© 2017  reconciling grey by Beth Anne Boardman  on mythopoetry.com
© 2017  reconciling grey Beth Anne Boardman All Rights Retained


ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Beth Anne Boardman, RN, MA, PhD lives in California and New Hampshire. She travels and lectures on the Mythology of Sport; Women and Myth; and the Alchemy of Adolescence (her dissertation topic), in addition to consulting as a writer to websites.  

Recently, Beth has served on the board of the Pacifica Graduate Institute Alumni Association and as Regional Coordinator for local alumni. Her career spans work as a registered nurse, the study of world dance and music, and the profound joy of raising two children.

BLOG


For stories and essays on creative life and culture visit Dr. Beth Ann Boardman at MYTHMUSE

POETRY BLOG


POEMS FROM THE OTHERWORLD




Sunday, May 14, 2017

GUEST POST "a mother glows" by BETH ANNE BOARDMAN #mOTHERSday #SundayMorning #ReasonToKeepGoing #mythopoetry

PHOTO OVERLAYS mythopoetry.com
























a mother glows




a mother glows
a mother gets sick
a mother swells
a mother dances about
a mother waddles
a mother wails
a mother dotes

how precious the hands!
how sweet the toes!

how frightening the wails,
how lovely the cradling….

a mother loves
a mother helps
a mother waits
a mother tries

to be redundant
to be unneeded

to be heartbroken
to be older

to be a mother
to be a lover
to be chosen
to be blessed

to love
to leave
to live

 
©2017 a mother glows Beth Anne Boardman mythopoetry.com
©2017 a mother glows Beth Anne Boardman All Rights Retained

ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Beth Anne Boardman, RN, MA, PhD lives in California and New Hampshire. She travels and lectures on the Mythology of Sport; Women and Myth; and the Alchemy of Adolescence (her dissertation topic), in addition to consulting as a writer to websites.  

Recently, Beth has served on the board of the Pacifica Graduate Institute Alumni Association and as Regional Coordinator for local alumni. Her career spans work as a registered nurse, the study of world dance and music, and the profound joy of raising two children.

BLOG

For stories and essays on creative life and culture visit Dr. Beth Ann Boardman at MYTHMUSE

POETRY BLOG

POEMS FROM THE OTHERWORLD




Wednesday, May 10, 2017

GUEST POST: "day and night/silent wings" by BETH ANNE BOARDMAN #wedwip #mythopoetry #poetry

























day and night/silent wings



day and night
my house is surrounded
by sacred wings….

two hawks call to each other across my roof
in the still dawn….

their screes grace the silence,
point to the silence….

they dance on the lifting currents of air
caused by the difference between night and day,
cold and warm,
dark and light….

often they come back just before noon,
when drafts of air surge up off the warming hillsides….

their calls ring like temple bells:
reminding me to be still for a moment,
to stop and touch the eternal in the day,
to take a breath and offer myself to the mystery….


another calls
as the sun turns orange
and falls slowly down
into the billowing cotton layer
that covers the western ocean,
drawn up over the day like a soft blanket….

this one summons the night-shift:
the ones who will soar over us as we
live on in the darkness,
as we sleep,
and dream,
and sometimes dance….

when the night is well-established,
their sounds, too, pierce the trying-to-be-silence:
shrill ghostly gliding white cries
of barn owls
and great horned owls
tracking their crawling prey….


if you’re outside walking in
that rare warm coastal air,
oohing and ahing over the surprising sharp blue glints
(priceless diamond stars making a
one-night-only appearance….)

if you’re out there,
you can sometimes catch a glimpse
of white wings glowing high above you in the night,
coming in fast,
and soon gone –
right over your head,
without a sound….

but a sheerly distant whistle drifts somewhere behind
those silent wings,
leaving a certain trace
of untouchable presence….

            •

on the very darkest nights,
there is one who comes to the roof-corner
right outside my room….

and even though the window might be closed
against the damp night air,
he announces his landing
with an unmistakable, commanding scree….

I am here for the night.

I sleep and wake
under the jurisdiction
of sacred wings….



ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Beth Anne Boardman, RN, MA, PhD lives in California and New Hampshire. She travels and lectures on the Mythology of Sport; Women and Myth; and the Alchemy of Adolescence (her dissertation topic), in addition to consulting as a writer to websites.  

Recently, Beth has served on the board of the Pacifica Graduate Institute Alumni Association and as Regional Coordinator for local alumni. Her career spans work as a registered nurse, the study of world dance and music, and the profound joy of raising two children.

BLOG

For stories and essays on creative life and culture visit Dr. Beth Ann Boardman at MYTHMUSE


POETRY BLOG

POEMS FROM THE OTHERWORLD




 

Saturday, April 29, 2017

POETS OF MYTHOPOETRY: BRIAN LANDIS Two Poems #guestpost #mythopoetry #NationalPoetryMonth 2017
























TWO POEMS


EL RANCHO GRANDE


Avocado trees planted in rows
       walnuts and grapes
In the arroyo, pampas grass
       as if trilled or plucked
A chord of pampas grass
singing down the breezy cañon
       to the sparkling sea
Two dogs in the sideyard
       barking
A lazy cat opens one golden eye

©2017 El Rancho Grande Brian Landis mythopoetry.com
©2017 El Rancho Grande Brian Landis All Rights Retained


FAMOUS PEOPLE


Pablo Picasso
          sits with Jean Cocteau
          praising miracles
(not life, which is common).
They drink espresso
          and eat Italian pastries.
"God," Jean philosophizes,
"judges us by our appearances
          and is the ultimate idiot."
Pablo paints God's portrait
          and is the ultimate idiot.
Idiocy is relative.
Albert Einstein, at the next table
          scribbles in the margin
          of his New York Times:
                   "Relativity is next to godliness"
He signs his name.
He leaves it on the table
          for the waiter to see.
(If you don't promote your own work,
          who will?)


©2017 Famous People Brian Landis mythopoetry.com
©2017 Brian Landis Famous People All Rights Retained




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Brian Landis is a Buddhist/Jungian psychotherapist, because poetry is a very bad way to make a living, living and working in San Luis Obispo, California.  As the years unfold, he looks more and more like his beloved arroyos and potreros, wild and unkempt.  He likes it that way and is ecstatic to be going to seed after a lifetime of bloom.

BRIAN ON FACEBOOK

Visit Brian on facebook

BOOK

Friday, April 28, 2017

POETS OF MYTHOPOETRY: LINDA SUDDARTH : Three Poems #mythopoetry #guestpost #NationalPoetryMonth 2017

























THREE POEMS


CURIOUS AND RICH


When I walk past
the fragrant forest
after heavy rain,
which smells like
the freshest salad
you ever ate,
some vegetation
from Otherworld
that when eaten
makes you feel alive,

then I listen, listen
and there is
nothing, nothing but.

When it is almost dusk
and the horizon is tinged
with the most delicate
hint of lavender,
against it dark
silhouettes of tiny
fruit-tree branches,

I listen, listen
there is nothing, nothing but.

When I pass the small mountain
rising like a god
impressing the night
and the still liquid sky,

I listen, listen
and there is nothing, nothing.

But nothing is something
curious and rich,
and I have heard it.


©2017 Curious And Rich Linda Suddarth
 mythopoetry.com

©2017 Curious And Rich
Linda Suddarth All Rights Retained

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT


“Curious and Rich,” Featured poem for Parabola Online, Summer 2014


BORROWED FOREST, RENTED THICKET

My comfort falls on deaf ears.
Though you are only volunteers,
comical encroaching
forest with your odd smells:
sweet, tangy mid-spring,
hints of honeysuckle, cedar,
thyme, vinegar, rose, float,
don’t you know tomorrow
will be the back-hoe,
saws, bulldozers,
and your lovely thickets
will be undone?
Strange tiny flowers, like bells
and purple prehistoric shaped,
beside the poke berry
monster, decorated
with pieces of old fence.
You’re not sad?
Little birds, find other nests.
Yesterday when the crow
sat eating your young
on the telephone wire,
stolen from you,
and from the maple,
didn’t you see
that was a sign to scatter?
Yet you still sing,
sitting in the tree
that will be gone tomorrow.
The maple who has given
much shade and color
isn’t sad either. She
is giving me strength.
In my heart,
borrowed forest, rented thicket,
you are forever,
many and varied shades of green,
and ever joyous in your singing.
Someday I’ll put some money
down and buy some wild place:
let it be what it is.


©2017 Borrowed Forest, Rented Thicket Linda Suddarth
mythopoetry.com

©2017 Borrowed Forest, Rented Thicket
Linda Suddarth All Rights Retained




HAPPY OTHER PLACE



With every rain the woods
grow another foot,
on the breeze
rose and honeysuckle
faintly permeate
the corners of the sky.
In the far-seeing
of distance is
the blue of mountain
through the tree tops:
the mountain that looks
down on all of us.
I’ve been there,
these are the apple groves
up on top of the blue.
One fall we sat
under an apple tree,
spread a blanket
and ate apple pie,
while the bees
resembled angels
singing all in harmony.
People strolled in a daze
with apple nets
in their hands,
collecting the harvest
in this happy
other-place.
©2017 Happy Other Place Linda Suddarth
mythopoetry.com

©2017 Happy Other Place
Linda Suddarth All Rights Retained



ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


First publication of the poem, HAPPY OTHER PLACE occurs April 15, 2017 on Linda's blog, LINDA WORD AND IMAGE


ABOUT THE AUTHOR



Linda Ann Suddarth sees the creative life as a vital expression of the psyche. Linda has been writing poetry and drawing/painting for more than thirty years. She has recently published poems in Parabola, Silver Birch Press, Anima, and Red River Review. Linda has a BFA in painting, an interdisciplinary MA in Aesthetic Studies, and a PhD in Mythological Studies with an emphasis in Depth Psychology. She teaches English, Art, and Humanities at the College level. Linda’s blog is www.lindawordandimage.blogspot.com, and she can be reached at linsudd (at) aol (dot) com.


VISIT LINDA ON FACEBOOK AT


LINDA SUDDARTH POETRY AND ART


LINDA'S BLOG


LINDA WORD AND IMAGE


Monday, April 24, 2017

POETS OF MYTHOPOETRY: DEANNA MCKINSTRY-EDWARDS Song And Poetry #mythopoetry #guestpost #NationalPoetryMonth 2017

























HOPEFUL GROUND
Written and performed by Deanna McKinstry-Edwards of Carmel, CA. Hopeful Ground is written and performed by Deanna McKinstry-Edwards and uploaded to SoundCloud by Stephanie Pope April 24, 2017 ©2017 Hopeful Ground Deanna McKinstry-Edwards All Rights Retained

SONG LYRICS


I remember the world
when I was a girl,
And it all spun round
on hopeful ground.

I remember the way
The songs of that day
Carried the sound
Of a higher ground.

Chorus:
We are the girls
Who never stopped believing.
Our voices should be heard
For there are dreams worth keeping.
We’ve crested life’s fierce waves,
We’ve honored all the graves
Of those who came before us
Who even now implore us
To live on hopeful ground.

 I remember the way
the light shaped the day.
There were great things to do,
whole worlds to renew.

We took up the call
Risked taking a fall,
But it all made sense,
We were now off the fence.


POETRY



BIRD DOG      For Asher



His mind moves
like a prophet
stalking
the beauty of food.

Every footstep a sacrifice,
a praise song of breath and motion,
a stamina born of tall grasses
and woodlands full of
ripe birds and the games of men.

Dreams soaked with hunger
pad his footfalls in promises.
He must not disappoint himself,
and his comrades.

The tall grasses have not forgotten him,
nor he their history
brushing against his fur,
hiding him as he moves
almost without moving, closer.

It is a foolish music
that can only win now and then,
but the now and then is the
music that drives his body.

And at night on the couch,
when he sleep with his legs
in the air like bent reeds,
I know I am seeing far, far
back into the friendship of fur
and human need
played out in olden times by firelight,
roasting the beatitudes of food
from the shared hunt.

©2017 Bird Dog Deanna McKinstry-Edwards mythopoetry.com
©2017 Bird Dog Deanna McKinstry-Edwards All Rights Retained



THE DEAD



The dead. Rarely are.

Even if you walk in moccasins
through a mossy wood,
and disturb not a leaf,
the dead will be disturbed.
They can’t help it.

Even if rivers make promises
to swallow their ashes,
and mountains chew their bones,
their voices seep through
the smallest spaces.

The dead always slip through,
courting the living.

Something about death,
however, cannot last forever.
Something about forever
is little understood.



©2017 The Dead Deanna McKinstry-Edwards  mythopoetry.com

©2017 The Dead  Deanna McKinstry-Edwards  All Rights Retained


THE LAST LIGHT IN THE MOLES EYES




Dying on the blacktop
from the wheels
of a fast moving traveler
the little mole
has waited for me to pass by.

Our eyes meet. 
He has me
the way an apple falls to earth
and the earth rises to greet it.

Lifting his
still breathing smallness
onto a large leaf,
I lay him in the soft touches
of spring throated grass
near the road
as sunlight and moonlight
sweep through each other
spinning tales of the
beginning and ending
of light.


©2017 The Last Light In The Moles Eyes Deanna McKinstry-Edwards
mythopoetry.com


©2017 The Last Light In The Moles Eyes  Deanna McKinstry-Edwards
All Rights Retained

  


WE CARRY



We carry creation’s seed
in the nest of our bodies.

We carry homeless
worlds,
forgotten and forsaken.

We wear the earth
in baskets on our backs,
brimming with grasses and sticks.

We carry life-loving soil.
 dusty and flood soaked
 it stains our feet.

We carry the old wood
fires, and the future
skies.

We sit on mountain tops
weaving wounds into blankets
and balm for generations to come.

We carry the voices
of the valleys,
the deep, deep valleys
where meandering streams meet
the meadows singing
replenishing Hallelujahs.

We stand taller than pyramids
and buildings dedicated
to the sun, blinding light
and perfect measure.

We are the moon-keepers.
shepards of shadows
and shade, and the soul’s
never-ending thirst
for the murmurations
of meaning.

We carry our men
back to their hearts,
and they carry us
back to ours. 

We
have grown in each other’s
branches, twisting, tender
with longing, longing to trust
who we really are.
How vulnerable.

We carry death, and sing it
back to life again.

We carry songs.  We sing.
We always sing.  Especially
when we’re broken,
and the whole world feels broken, too.

We are the song
that allows starry nights
their moisturing dark
for dry days, and those to come.

We carry the hearth
of heaven
in our touch
and voices.

We carry.  We carry.
We
Carry.

©2017 We Carry Deanna McKinstry-Edwards mythopoetry.com
©2017 We Carry Deanna McKinstry-Edwards All Rights Retained  



CELERY SALAD AND OLD EYES



This is not a sad story.
Life moves on that’s all. Moves
around and through things
becoming something else,
continents shaking at their edges
trawling for missing pieces.

Take celery root.  It’s tuberous
hardness cooked supple and soft,
becomes celery salad.
“No, I ‘ve never had celery salad,”
I told her.

She lives alone,
by a sacred fire of small things
made meaningful by her attention
and 96 year old hands dicing, chopping,
peeling, mixing mayonnaise, onion
and vinegar.

Late afternoon traffic on Sunset Boulevard,
framed in her living room windows,
lurches homeward,
the drivers, listening to tapes, music,
the news of murders and quaking continents,
a hundred leagues away they are from where they are,
split by long drives and the misgivings
of the day.

But with her, there are no misgivings,
she is already home, into her
evening rituals, present to
the smallest, and her cat
circling around her legs.

The rush is somewhere else.
Celery salad is being composed here
by 96 year old hands and
old eyes dimmed by macular
degeneration. Her soul’s
eyes are another story.

She is not what she was,
but always what she is.

The cutting board crackles
under her knife, the cat’s bell
jingles the air. 
I’m sitting under the relaxed sky
of her roomy apartment, filled with
96 years of memories, china, photos,
animal figures, animal paintings,
stuffed animals, some who can speak
and sing…
Animals, animals, animals, part of
our shared sacraments and bond.

Her footsteps, barely audible,
fall like magnolia petals,
onto the linoleum.  Will I ever walk this softly?

She is content.  Prepared to live,
19 bottles of distilled water
within reach, and prepared to move on
to a place as certain and clear in her mind
as the purest stream and sky
she could imagine.

Do you know anyone like that?
To know even one soul,
like a single pelican
rising from a salty lagoon,
full of liftoff, fluidity and flight,
will lay you down at day’s end,
home again, with simple things,
and no rush.


©2017 Celery Salad And Old Eyes Deanna McKinstry-Edwards mythopoetry.com
©2017 Celery Salad And Old Eyes Deanna McKinstry-Edwards All Rights Retained

Celery Salad And Old Eyes by Deanna McKinstry-Edwards is previously published in Mythopoetry Scholar: Annual Reflections In Depth Perspectives Volume 2  “Matter And Beauty”, January, 2011





ABOUT THE AUTHOR



Deanna McKinstry-Edwards, PhD is a professional actress, singer, writer and Pushcart nominated poet.   Returning to college in 1999, she earned a Master’s and Doctoral Degree in Mythology and Depth Psychology at the Pacifica Graduate Institute.  Her doctoral dissertation, Singing; Soul’s Mythic Mirror, explores singing as the indigenous voice and language of human beings.   Her lectures on singing and myth merge her performance talents with her academic background.  She teaches a course on Ecopsychology, and is the author of Psyche, Eros and Me; A Mythic Memoir.  





BOOK

PSYCHE, EROS AND ME: A MYTHIC MEMOIR